


The Life and Times of Mary Soap

by Gilli_ann



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Mary Sue, Other, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:58:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilli_ann/pseuds/Gilli_ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of a Crickhollow bar of soap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Life and Times of Mary Soap

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer; The Lord of the Rings belong to the Tolkien estate and Peter Jackson/New Line Cinema. I intend no copyright infringement and certainly make no money from this.
> 
> Originally posted to LJ.

Many an ordinary household object would have a story to tell, if it only had a voice of its own. But unlike humans, or hobbits, or dwarves, or elves, such objects have no form of expression save their very presence, the reality of being used and yielding the service for which they were created. They can make no choice to impact or change their own existence. Providing useful service, and if fate allows; - providing comfort and joy to boot; - that will be their story. 

And just so, fate now lies in wait for a little bar of soap, lying unwrapped and ready on a stack of large soft towels, next to a bottle of scented oil. All these objects are placed on a low settle, beside a luxurious wooden bathtub in a huge bathroom. 

The room sports a further two tubs placed side by side on the stone floor. All three tubs have recently been filled with hot water, and the room is foggy with wafting steam. There’s light and some smoke from a fireplace where water is boiling over a good-sized fire, adding to the heat and limited visibility in the room. 

Soon, in the flickering firelight, in the liquid heat and the cloudy puffs of steam, the little bar of soap will meet its destiny.

It has not had a long life. Recently manufactured by the widow Mrs. Goodbody, it was immediately put on display for sale in her shop with others of its kind, protected from grasping hands on neat little shelves. Many of the others were a larger variety than this little bar of soap, and many smelled differently. 

The little bar of soap is a luxury bar, a delicate ivory-colored oval, perfectly manufactured with discreet scent to provide the most soothing comfort and care. It takes pride in this, but while in the shop, never stooped to preening or gloating. Alike, and yet different, the various soap bars kept amiable company.

One day the bell above the shop door tinkled, and the widow greeted a distinctly portly hobbit. Yes, more than portly, the bar of soap would have opined, if anyone had asked it. It would be difficult to describe this particular hobbit as anything but fat, plainly spoken. Yet this was the very hobbit who bought the little bar of soap, and saw it placed in a large paper bag with several others of its kind as well as a variety of bottled bathing oils and lotions, for transport to the place where their soapy lives would play out. 

“Anything else, Mr. Bolger?” the widow was heard saying, happy at the significant sale she’d just made. “I suppose you are helping that Mr. Baggins now, in moving here from Hobbiton and all? He’ll surely need a lot of varied supplies. I’ve heard many a fine and rousing tale of the bathing at that there Bag End. Is there anything else I can get you – or him? “

“No thank you, Mrs. Goodbody”, the bulging hobbit answered politely. “This will do for now. You are perfectly right, I am in a great hurry to get everything ready for Mr. Baggins’ arrival, so I must hasten to bid you good-day!”

That was the last the little bar of soap heard from or of its creator, who although pleased with the sale, had to be a little miffed at the lack of gossip. Really, that Fatty Bolger could have given her something juicy to dwell on, some sweet tender bathroom tidbit to ponder and share with her good friend Mrs. Proudbottom. What with her giving him the perfect lead-in about Bag End bathings and all! But still; - good money is good money. She surely was content even so. The little bar of soap felt certain of that, as it was carried away into the unknown.

\- x - 

It’s a very short while later that our soap finds itself in its current position on the stack of towels, waiting anxiously to be put to use in the steaming bathtub.

This will be it! Now has come the time to prove its worth, and to fulfill its destiny before expiring in a froth of bubbles. 

It doesn’t have to wait long. The bathroom door opens, and eager loud voices can be heard. 

One cries: “A bath! Oh blessed Meriadoc!” 

Then another says something, the meaning of which would have eluded the little bar of soap even if it had ears, so mesmerizing is the soft lovely tone and pitch of the voice that speaks. The joy at this becomes manifold multiplied when the owner of that voice steps up to the little bar of soap’s very tub, and starts undressing without further ado. 

Coat and weskit, suspenders, shirt, trousers and smallclothes quickly land in a heap to the side. Then the pale elegant right hand of an equally pale and completely luscious body grips the soap and brings it along. The near-divine being gets into the tub and slowly eases himself down in the hot water, little bar of soap firmly in hand. 

A soft throaty sigh escapes into the air, and a content humming follows. It vibrates all through the slender body, which relaxes noticeably as cramped and tired muscles, along with recent fears and worries, are eased and comforted by hot water. There is to be no similar rest for the little bar of soap, though. 

The being in the tub dunks both the soap and his head, shakes droplets all over the tub and floor, and starts rubbing the little bar of soap vigorously to work up a proper lather. 

Now, at this stage of events, the little bar of soap is pretty much melting into goo anyway. It reacts to the insistent rubbing with soap-bubbling delight, producing the finest, most inviting soft-scented lather it possibly can. The fingers rubbing it are slim and strong, yet gentle, and almost just as good: There are no long raking fingernails to gash the little bar of soap and mar its slick creamy surface. 

The insistent rubbing makes the little bar of soap literally foam. It could continue like this forever, till there was nothing but few jubilantly escaping bubbles left. But this is not to be. Instead, it is dropped into the tub, sinking in the water and coming to rest near the feet of the hobbit in the tub. The thick leathery soles and the curly-haired feet and calves makes the hobbithood of the bather a certainty. Even an ordinary dense everyday bar of kitchen soap would have realized as much.

The hobbit in the meantime progresses to rub the lather-filled hands over his scalp and into his hair, washing thoroughly, before dunking his head once more to remove the suds. 

Then he makes himself comfortable. Splashing a little just for the fun of it, he slips further down into the tub to immerse himself completely in water, neck to toe. In so doing, his downwards movement combined with the currents his splashing feet create move the little bar of soap. It travels from its previous position to a new place between relaxed splayed thighs of wiry strength but with the softest pale skin imaginable. In fact, it comes to rest against a thatch of dark curls and what rather looks and feels like two dusky-colored cushions. Even if it had been granted the power to speak just then, the little bar of soap would have been utterly speechless with delight. 

Had it been above water, it could have enjoyed the hobbit’s lovely voice in addition, now rising in some fast-paced ribald bathing tune. But under the water the sound is muffled, dark and deep: Very fitting, in fact, to the little bar of soap’s current location. Softly nestled in this enclosing space, it feels as close to perfect happiness as it’s ever been. The most intimate and tender resting place, the hot water slowly dissolving it….. this is undoubtedly soap bar heaven, and the little bar of soap feels deeply grateful that it is allowed to experience this.

For a moment it compares its fate to those in the nightmarish stories rife among the soaps in the shop: The sad existence of soaps sold to dwarves for use in their mysterious mating rituals, or the tragedy of abandoned soaps in some tower appropriated by orcs; - slowly crumbling unused into dust in the course of the long years……... or the worst fate of all; the one that befalls those bars of soap destined for the personal hygiene of one Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her son Lotho. The little bar of soap shudders delicately, contemplating such a horrible fate and its own incredible luck. 

This dreamlike state continues for some time, while the soft limbs surrounding the little bar of soap remain relaxed and still. The hands that once rubbed it so decisively now float leisurely in the water above with the sleek abandon of sea otters. 

Then something changes. The relaxed limbs tense, the body moves. The floating hands move too, one to take hold of the side of the tub, the other ….. oh, the other comes slowly questing downwards, fingers dragging lightly across the lovely submerged expanse of chest, skating across the taut abdomen, moving lower still. The little bar of soap is completely enthralled. The suspense of what is about to happen …… it’s almost unbearable. Tender fingers gently explore and find what they are searching for, fondling and then firmly cupping.... 

And thus reclaimed by a firm grip, the little bar of soap is immediately put to work. 

First it has to suffer the indignity of being rubbed hard against a long-handled brush. This takes a severe toll on the shape and size of the little bar of soap, which is however left alone to recover and regroup while a vigorous back-scrubbing takes place. 

Thereafter things brighten considerably as the now diminished little bar of soap is rubbed firmly up and down one slender arm, then the other. It glides gently across the strong neck and pale throat, and thoroughly caresses the chest, paying especial attention to two pert rosy nubs. It dips into the navel, and then moves lower still. Revisiting its previous so beloved resting place, the little bar of soap makes its utmost to provide slick lathery service of the very best kind. 

All too soon however, it moves on once more. Smoothing across white thighs is a pure yet brief delight, while feet and calves require a very insistent rubbing, scrubbing and lathering to get all the dirt and grit of travel out of the curly hair. 

With a sinking feeling the little bar of soap realizes that the end, and its own end, is swiftly approaching. It has shrunk to a mere sliver of its former self, and the insistent washing of the hairy feet leads to further shrinkage. The bath will soon be over. But the little bar of soap knows its place, and knows its duty. It strives to prove useful to the last.

Then it is over. Almost nothing now is left except a sodden little sweet-smelling clump of soap, looking much the worse for wear. It sinks to the bottom of the tub, tempestuously shaken and tossed on its way as the clean, hot and relaxed hobbit splashes his legs with glee, water sloshing in frothing spurts over the tub’s edge. 

Then he rises and leaves the little bar of soap, -the very, very, very tiny little bar of soap - to suffer the final moments of its fate alone, but with dignity, in the gentle warmth of the hobbit-reminiscent water. By the time the water is emptied down the sizable bathroom drain, the little bar of soap has completely dissolved, leaving nothing more behind than its delicate smell and some pearly bubbles, floating on the surface like remembrances of soapy delight. 

Lest you think this story too terribly sad, it should be added that if you ever tell it to the bars of soap still lingering in Mrs. Goodbody’s shop, they will all without a doubt echo the following envious sentiment:

“What a way to go!”


End file.
